


I Don't Feel Like Dancing

by CoffeeAndTin



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gift Exchange, M/M, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 10:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14892843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndTin/pseuds/CoffeeAndTin
Summary: Maybe she's homesick. Maybe she's bored. Gaby cannot wholly account for her dour mood, but Illya and Napoleon are there for her.





	I Don't Feel Like Dancing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takingoffmyshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/gifts).



> For the record, I went with Request #1. A little story about Gaby and two of her favorite people. The title is from the song of the same name by the Scissor Sisters. It's forever stuck in my head. I hope you enjoy!

Gaby didn’t trudge. Not exactly. Her back was too straight, and her head was too high for her stride to be considered anything so graceless or resigned. She thought the walk to Napoleon and Illya’s new apartment had been fraught with annoyance, but upon reflection, she supposed her entire day had been. Nothing more life-threatening than paperwork, or having to once again rebuff the advances of a fellow agent for whom she had no interest. Utterly mundane.  The late day heat made even her simple, white sundress feel heavy. She felt justified in her decision to tie her long, dark hair back in a braid and sweep her bangs off her forehead with a scarf. It was pale green, and dappled with white. It wasn’t a particular favorite of hers. It had simply been closest to hand.

Jazzy, upbeat music blared from a storefront. But it was neither the day, the place or the time. Gaby didn’t know why she felt no inclination to stay; to tap her foot, or sway and delight in the way the skirt of her dress moved around her svelte, toned legs.

To her left, a car’s engine clunked.

She watched as the car -a Cutlass -pulled away. It would have been a handsome machine had it not been for the gaudy, gold paint job.

 _Check your transmission,_ the thought as she privately admonished the driver.

The pang of sentiment caught her off guard. She missed her garage; she missed everything from the building itself to the dirt and the grime on the floor. In her mind, she played over the memory of her own chaotic arrangement of tools. When she convinced herself she could smell motor oil and dust, she frowned, and chided herself for having waxed so nostalgic.

_What is wrong?_

There was ennui, to be sure, but who would have thought that, by comparison, danger and intrigue were preferable?

 _Nothing,_ she supplied, _nothing is wrong_.

Engines were easier.

Frustrated anew at how pointless interrogation of the self seemed to be, she shifted the bottle of vodka from her left hand to her right before increasing her pace. The shadows seemed to have been stretched as far as her patience in the deep, red light of the setting sun.

Gaby entered the apartment building. It was, blessedly, far cooler than the outside. She entered the elevator, and was relieved to find that she was not sharing it with anyone. As the compartment made its ascent, Gaby wondered at the way it operated. How many tiny systems and machines made it work. She reached the intended level and the door opened with a friendly _ding_.

Gaby approached the door, and knocked. She quelled the notion that she had the wrong apartment (She'd been there before. She knew she was at the right one.), or that Napoleon and Illya were not at home, despite the fact they’d made arrangements to spend the evening together. She waited; knocked again. Whatever doubt had been stoked was banished when she heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

Napoleon opened the door.

“Hello, Gaby.”

Napoleon’s hair was a little mussed, and his eyes were more heavily lidded than usual, but he smiled. It was winsome, and intelligent, and complementary of so handsome a man; but to Gaby it was familiar, and welcome, and so damn good to see. Illya nodded from where he was standing by the couch.

“We…” Napoleon said as though he were about to beg her forgiveness, “fell asleep.”

“ _You_ fell asleep, Cowboy.”

“Well, if you want to split hairs,” Napoleon said as he ran a thumb over the dimple on his chin and looked down. His smile grew broader and Gaby found herself enjoying Napoleon and Illya’s fond prickliness. No matter how glib the pair could be, Gaby knew Illya was calmer in Napoleon’s company. Both men, Gaby would wager, felt a sense of belonging with each other, and she could not have been happier for them.

“Are you going to invite the lady in?” Illya asked as he returned to his seat.

“Care to join us?” Napoleon asked, without so much as a backward glance at Illya.

“Love to,” Gaby said, as she crossed the threshold and handed Napoleon the bottle she’d brought. She saw that there were still boxes that needed to be unpacked. Not for the first time, Gaby admired the space her friends were now sharing. She imagined once they were completely moved in, the apartment would be spartan, but exceedingly tasteful; the perfect combination of its tenants’ sensibilities. “This is my housewarming gift until your real one gets here.”

The Parisian frame would, she hoped, look good in their new home.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Illya chastised.

“We agree on that much,” Napoleon said as he made his way to the kitchen and produced three tumblers. He put ice in two of them, and opened the bottle before serving its contents. Gaby didn’t miss the smile that played across Illya’s face.

“I’ll just have to disagree, then,” Gaby intoned as she accepted libations from Napoleon. After handing Illya the iceless drink, Napoleon sat on the chair that was catty-corner from the couch.

Looking at the way the cushions on the couch were rumpled, she could see they’d both been reclining there. She was grateful Napoleon had afforded her a seat next to Illya. She tucked herself under Illya’s long arm, and he proceeded to use one powerful hand to gently massage the nape of her neck. They sat, and sipped, talked; and corrected each other's recollections about different missions.

Illya refilled the drinks.

Napoleon and Illya bickered languidly about which local bakery was better. Amid their obvious affection for one another, Gaby felt her tension begin to ebb away. In safety or danger, Gaby was glad to be able to have the sense of bonhomie the three of them shared so reliably. 

Napoleon announced that he would make sandwiches. After all, none of them had eaten, and he didn’t think that he could truly be so lacking a host. He took his glass and Gaby’s to refill. Illya elected to continue to nurse his own.

Illya’s fingers continued to knead the nape of her neck and she remembered how, a few months prior, she’d taken that same hand in both of hers. Napoleon had been shot during a mission, and when she’d caught up with Illya he’d been standing alone; lost and stone-still. They waited together for any news. Illya’s grief and worry had been palpable. Gaby had been worried for Napoleon, but she could not have guessed the depth of what Illya had been going through.

Illya’s fingers ceased their ministrations. For a second, Gaby was certain that Illya had somehow read her thoughts.

She lolled her head in Illya’s direction and raised a neatly groomed brow, inquiring as to why he had stopped. A reply was not immediately forthcoming, which was no real surprise where Illya was concerned. He watched her. Gaby guessed the subtle tightness around his eyes meant there was a question he wanted to ask.

“Hmm?” she asked.

“Something is wrong.”

It wasn’t a question. The directness of his gaze told her his concern was not for Napoleon, or their new living arrangement. Illya was as blunt, and as honest as any spy could be; and Gaby loved him that much more for it. She only regretted that she didn’t have an answer to give him. She settled for setting her elbow on the armrest and leaning her temple on her extended, manicured index finger. She shrugged and gave a wan smile.

To his credit, Illya didn’t seem to mistake her gesture for a demure refusal to answer. He gave a little squeeze to the back of her neck, nodded, and crossed one leg over his knee before resting his glass of alcohol on his thigh. He relaxed further into the backrest and stretched his arm over her shoulders.

“You are...” Illya began, then stopped. He chewed at the insides of his cheeks as if he wondered how, or if, to proceed. When Gaby thought he was going to let the thought go unfinished, he continued. “You are allowed, I think, to have bad day.”

His brow creased as he looked at her. Perhaps it was something someone had told him. More likely, it was a conclusion Illya had reached on his own. Either way, his deceptively attuned statement was completely right.

Having said what he needed to say, Illya took a sip of his drink. Gaby nodded, and relaxed into his side.

“Thank you, Illya” she whispered.

Napoleon returned with fresh drinks, and a tray of assorted sandwiches and pastries. He praised her choice in distilled beverage. The ice in the glasses clinked as he approached, and she recalled that she had nearly brought scotch. Napoleon didn’t pay compliments lightly, (and even then, usually not without an air of facetiousness), and if Gaby wasn’t mistaken, she thought she saw subtle rosiness working its way into his cheeks. Even so, she allowed herself to feel a small sense of accomplishment, lest she forget how to appreciate the little things.  

And perhaps it didn’t get simpler than having drinks with friends at the close of day.

"We'll see which desserts Gaby likes best," Napoleon said. 

 


End file.
